Page 112 of My Queendom for a Horse

“And don’t say that worthless piece of amber is more valuable, because it’s not.”

“To me it is,” I say.

“Well, now you have some things from me that are indisputably more valuable, and there’s plenty more where those came from.”

The next twenty-four hours pass in a bit of a blur, the most notable moments being our practice ride—I’d forgotten what a joy it is to ride Obsidian—and the way he completely soothed John’s and my dad’s concerns about his absence and Obsidian Devil’s last minute substitution.

“You never handled my dad that well before,” I say. “And I don’t think you ever even tried to get along with John.”

“First of all,” he says, “I had no idea what to do or say when you first turned me human again. And secondly, I wasn’t trying yet.” He winks. “But now I’ll do whatever it takes to make anyone you care about listen to me.”

“Just listen?” I arch one eyebrow.

He casts his eyes heavenward. “And like me, if that matters to you.”

The day of the race, I’m in Obsidian’s stall, running my hand down his sleek, shiny neck when John bangs on the wall of the stall. “Kristiana Liepa, you’d better be dressed. You’re due for a weigh out in ten minutes.”

Although I told them that Aleksandr’s also back—they weren’t delighted—John’s still listed as the official trainer for Obsidian Devil on our paperwork. He’s taking his role seriously, it seems. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll head over right now.”

“I’ll saddle his royal highness while you’re gone.” John walks into the stall while I walk out.

I get changed and jog over to the weigh out. It only takes a moment, and then I walk across to the handicap center with my ticket. John meets me there with Obsidian. We take his weights and get the designated amounts slid into the compartments on the saddle that were made for this. It feels even heavier than usual, but that’s probably just because of my nerves.

“You ready?” John asks me.

“Well, let’s see. My hands are shaking, my stomach’s churning, and I feel like running into the smallest corner I can find and curling into a ball.”

“That’s all fine as long as you don’t puke. You’ve got to be within four ounces of your current weight for the weigh in after the race.”

“Very reassuring. Thanks, John.”

He chucks me on the shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

Obsidian bumps my hip, and I absently rub his forehead.

I see Finn a moment before I hear him. “Even with the Backstreet Boy in weight you’re carrying over your saddle, you’re going to be fine.” Finn leads his horse, Some Like It Hot, next to me. He’s a nine-year-old two-time veteran of the Grand National, and he looks as calm as Finn.

“Of course you’re not worried. You’ve ridden in this melee a dozen times, and only been unseated once.”

“Becher’s Brook is a sadistic beast.” He grins. “But I reiterate: you will be fine. You’re the second best jockey I know.”

I grin. “Narcissist.”

Obsidian snaps at him, but it’s half-hearted and Finn smiles this time.

“Your horse is a real pain, you know. I told my mum to bet on me, but she liked Obsidian Devil at King George, and she insisted on putting fifty quid on you again. You better not let her down a second time.”

“Or I won’t get ice cream after this?”

“I’d love to take you for ice cream.” Finn’s look is a little too intense, but my hands aren’t shaking anymore, and my stomach isn’t so queasy. Finn’s a good friend.

“I heard about you and Sean,” he says. “I meant to say something, but at first it seemed too soon, and then it just seemed too late, so ya know. I’m sorry.”

Obsidian’s ears perk up and he turns to me. He bumps my arm.

“Two minutes until the parade, then the girth check, and then we’re off. We better mount.” Finn repositions his reins.

“Good luck,” I say. “If we don’t win, I’d rather it be you who beats us.”

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